The Meaning of the Word
by Celestially
Summary: In the middle of the journey of his life, Ezio came to himself in a great city to find that love had not yet been lost. - Ezio and Claudia, Maria, Machiavelli, Caterina, Cristina, Leonardo - hints of slash in one section


As I make you wait for the next chapter of VoE and another little fluffy fic I'm writing as a gift for a friend, here is a fic I wrote back in September for the Assassin's Creed Big Bang! There was a fanmix that went along with it created by my partner for the project, but the file appears to have expired or been deleted... A shame, as I would have loved to have shared it! At the very least, here is the album art:

i. imgur. com/ umqRol .jpg

This is slightly edited from the original version that went up in September; mainly fixing a few mistakes and making sections clearer.

Enjoy!

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><p><em><strong>The Meaning of the Word<strong>_

_Love shows itself more in adversity than in prosperity; as light does, which shines most where the place is darkest._

_- Leonardo da Vinci_

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><p><em><strong>Storge<strong>_

_affection through familiarity; love for family or people brought together by chance_

For the longest time, Ezio had taken every opportunity to remind Claudia that her place was not as a Madam, and that she belonged in Florence where she and their mother would be safe.

"_Gonfaloniere_ Piero Soderini is a great ally of Machiavelli," Ezio reminded her time and time again, perhaps more harshly than was truly needed, but he had long since grown tired of saying this. "You don't belong in _Roma_, in this war. You belong in _Firenze_, where it's safe."

And time and time again Claudia narrowed her eyes in response, lifting her nose in the air in feminine disdain. She had always been too beautiful, his sister. Too young and too soft and too beautiful. "I belong in this war as much as you do, _fratello_." She spat the word as if it were an insult. "I am an Auditore too."

Now, he wanted to eat his words.

"We came back with the money," one courtesan said agitatedly, as the second rubbed her eyes furiously to wipe away the tears only to unintentionally leave trails of dark oil from her lashes that streaked across her rosy cheeks. "They followed us home..."

Ezio should have felt vindicated for having foreseen the issue, but this more than transcended a three-year clash of egos. He felt childish, in hindsight, for ever having thought that his family's safety was something that he could have been "right" or "wrong" about. Life was too flimsy, and their lives too precious. It shamed him to realize that he had almost _stopped__caring_ for his family—a noble family nearly destroyed by corruption and petty ambition—when what remained of it was threatened.

Leaving the courtesans to sob uselessly outside, he ran towards the door, swiftly forcing it open in a desperate attempt to rescue his family from the guards that wanted their lives. He imagined a gruesome scene inside: the two women battered and bruised, still struggling against the disgusting men that held them. It was too early still for them to be dead; no, at this point the guards would be attempting to finish what the Florentine guards had started almost thirty years prior. He shuddered to see his mother return to the same catatonic state from which she had only barely escaped, much less see his baby sister suffer the same fate. With Mario gone, he was the only one who could properly defend the women of his family, and he feared that he had already failed in that duty.

The scene that met him, however, was not what he expected, and he couldn't help but feel a swell of pride at the sight of his sister standing over dead guards, breathing from exertion though not completely winded, her knife stained with blood that also pooled on the expensive carpet beneath them. Her gaze was defiant when it met his, much different from the panic that silently swept through him when he saw and killed the guard that threatened Leonardo nearly thirty years prior.

"What?" she asked, as if this were an everyday occurrence, and he almost wondered if it had been this whole time. How and when had she learned?

"My sister knows how to wield a blade," Ezio said, simultaneously impressed and stunned.

He wondered if it had been Mario or some other mercenary's doing. Maybe Claudia had approached her uncle and asked to learn how to fight? Claudia's role in Monteriggioni had changed from bookkeeper to acting mistress in Mario and Ezio's absence, after all, so it wasn't so farfetched that she would have learned to fight in case of emergency. Mario was fairly open-minded, so he could have imagined him teaching his niece; or if he had forbidden it, her going behind his back and asking—or coercing, or bribing—one of the _condottieri_ to secretly train her away from Mario's watchful eye.

Or perhaps she had learned after the destruction of Monteriggioni, in response to the helplessness of once again watching their home and lives being destroyed? It made a lot of sense, though he wasn't sure when she would have found the time to do so. As madam of the Rosa in Fiore, Claudia had constantly been busy managing her girls' appointments and information, though she could have perhaps gotten her mother to do so while she trained. But who would have taught her? Their allies were all so busy fighting their own respective battles that she hardly would have imagined them taking the time to train her in the art of combat.

But more importantly, no matter whom it was who taught her and when, Ezio hadn't heard a word of it—not from her, from their mother, their uncle, their allies... Had they mentioned or hinted at it in the past and he had just been too blind or foolish to notice it?

It was as if she changed before his eyes: he stopped seeing a scared, spoiled fifteen-year-old and suddenly saw the hardened and world-weary, but still beautiful woman before him. Ezio had noticed the change years ago, but refused to acknowledge it—it was much easier to assume that Claudia would always be Claudia, his tiresome and immature little sister. But his _sorellina_ was no longer a little girl.

"And I am ready to do it again," Claudia answered firmly, squeezing the handle of her dagger with determination.

"Spoken like a true Auditore," Ezio said, smiling crookedly at her.

Claudia didn't respond in kind, her eyes as guarded as her stance. He imagined that it was because she had just escaped death and her blood still raced, but something told him that it wasn't just that.

Still, their reconciliation was a huge relief to their mother, to say the least. She had spent three years reprimanding Ezio for not being kinder to his sister, so to see the two of them speaking on friendly terms—and to see him smile at her, no less—was a huge relief.

"I woke up from a long sleep and my children were adults," Maria told him not long after the attack on the brothel, clutching the pendant of her necklace with wrinkled hands as she spoke. She was older, Ezio reminded himself, and though she had only returned to them a few years ago, he worried that she was once again fading away. "You were always away on your quest for vengeance, and Claudia had become a beautiful, capable woman."

"Always away?" Ezio asked, taking his mother's tired hands so that they held his rather than the pendant. "_Mammà_, I always came back for you. With feathers, remember?"

"_Come Petruccio_," she whispered, her eyes glassy. Then she looked down at their clasped hands and sighed. "I spent twenty years mourning my dead sons, but now that I am awake again, I think I mourn my living children as well."

"Because we changed?" Ezio asked, clutching her hands tighter.

"Because your lives were stolen from you," Maria answered. "But at least you had _freedom_. It may not have been the life you intended, but you saw different cities, met different people ... your father's living legacy."

"My life was not _free_," Ezio insisted, stung at the idea that this is what his mother thought of his lifestyle. "This was not the life I wanted to live."

"I know, Ezio. But it is not you that I pity the most." Maria quickly glanced towards the door of the brothel. "Your sister was supposed to marry," she said, her voice low and sharp. "She was supposed to have a family and a comfortable life. Instead, she was forced to look after a city she did not know and a mother who no longer knew her. You explored _Italia_ while she was trapped inside." Her eyes turned as sharp as her voice, and he knew that he would not like what he heard next. "And you were never the brother she needed."

Ezio opened his mouth to protest, but found that he didn't have an excuse or an explanation.

He spent days trying to justify his behavior, but it seemed as though every memory was a reminder of how horrible of a brother he had been. "Claudia thinks the world of him, but he rarely visits her. From what I gather, he's distant," that woman in Monteriggioni—Angelina, Claudia's friend—had said of them. He had casually acknowledged that it was true, but it had been in the hopes that he would get the chance to fix that, to spend time with his family. All of that had been taken away from him the next day, when the Borgia had taken Monteriggioni. And Angelina, who had been the herald of the need to reconnect with his sister, had been killed, her head left on a pike.

The knowledge fueled his need to destroy the Borgia. He had wanted to reconnect with his family, but instead pushed his sister away to the point where she couldn't respond to his smiles. He had made the quest for revenge his own, forgetting that Claudia was an Auditore too, and that her life was in ruins, in Florence and in Monteriggioni.

He wanted to say something—to _apologize_—but he couldn't find the words.

"Claudia," he said instead, months later, in front of all the assassins in Rome, when he finally initiated her into the Order. "We here dedicate our lives to protecting the freedom of humanity. Mario, our father, and our brother once stood around this fire, fighting off the darkness."

Lit by the glow of the ceremonial fire, he finally saw the woman he should have seen all those years ago. She was a woman forced to mature too early, but who had done so with beauty and dignity. Her life and potential had arguably been more crippled than Ezio's, but she had made the best of her situation in her own unique way. She could have listened to Ezio and hidden in Florence where she would have been protected from the dangers of Borgia Rome; instead, her damned hardheadedness—too similar to his own—demanded that she perform her duty to her family and help in their cause.

"Now, I offer the choice to you," he concluded. "Join us."

Did she still dream of the future they could have had? Of marriage, family, comfort; of their father and Federico and Petruccio alive and well; of a world relatively free of the intrigue of the Assassins and Templars? It was something he meant to ask her—along with how she had learned to fight, since their mother and allies hadn't known she could either—but he hadn't had the opportunity to sit with her yet as brother and sister and simply _talk_. He knew that he never would have truly been free of this war, but Claudia would have escaped it by marrying. If she realized that, however, she didn't show it, for which he admired her. If she was able to look forward and accept her life without dreaming of what could have been, then she was far stronger than him.

Claudia, as usual, didn't hesitate, presenting Ezio and Machiavelli with her hand. She briefly cast her eyes out to the entire room, taking in the sight of all of her future Brothers, before turning back to the one she had always had with fierce determination. Their mother should have been there to see this, but she was at the brothel resting—Claudia and Ezio hadn't yet discussed their mother's failing health, but they were both quite aware of it.

"You're all I have left," Claudia's eyes seemed to say. It was the first time she had shown him any of her vulnerability in years.

"I know," Ezio silently responded as Machiavelli lifted the branding iron from the fire, "and I am sorry for it."

They were wordlessly holding a very private conversation in the middle of a crowded room, of which none of the other assassins seemed to be aware. It was strange that they were finally talking to each other in such a manner, but they had learned many years ago that their family had _never _been normal.

"I am sorry," Ezio's eyes repeated as the brand was pressed to Claudia's skin. "I am sorry for ever having doubted you."

She smiled through the pain. "_Non è nulla_, _mio_ _fratello_."

Perhaps it was fitting that Claudia had finally joined their Brotherhood, their family of assassins. Now he had the chance to learn how to be a better brother to her, in both senses of the word.

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><p><em><strong>Philia<strong>_

_friendship and brotherly love; loyalty to friends, family, and community_

When Ezio wanted to mourn his family and all his dreams, he thought of Florence. When he wanted to mourn the loss of hope and stability, he thought of Monteriggioni. When he wanted to mourn friendship, he thought of Venice.

Rome had no lack of allies and apprentices, but they were just that: allies and apprentices, and perhaps not truly _friends_ anymore. The city was a battleground, with everyone in a near-constant state of unease even as the Assassins reclaimed more and more of the city. Familiar faces like Bartolomeo and La Volpe were distant due to their respective battles against armies and paranoia, and even his dear friend Leonardo had been more ghost than man, occupied by either his public work for Cesare Borgia or his clandestine work for Ezio and the other Assassins. His apprentices were pleasant and they respected him greatly, but revered the older, more experienced assassin to the point that it felt uncomfortable interacting with him on a more personal level, even after a few years of knowing each other. Ultimately, the bulk of his time in Rome had been spent doing favors for the people he cared about, but without truly being able to interact with them on a deeper level.

He missed the effortlessness of Venice. Though at the time he had almost been too wrapped up in his quest for revenge to notice it, in Venice Ezio had no lack of companionship. There were the thieves, mainly Antonio and Rosa, who constantly invited him to drink and play cards, and sometimes flirt and fuck, in Rosa's case; Sister Teodora and her courtesans, who beyond offering physical pleasures were surprisingly good conversationalists; Bartolomeo, not yet preoccupied by the French and still more interested in a raucous good time; and, naturally, Leonardo, always there for him. Ezio felt as though he hadn't appreciated his good fortune at the time, just as he hadn't appreciated the loving home Monteriggioni could have been.

By contrast, Rome—_his_ Rome, the city he had nearly saved—was spaciously crowded and strangely lonely. It seemed like a strange thing to think when Rome's citizens would cast him furtive, respectful glances for his efforts to liberate the city from the oppressive Borgia presence, but it didn't change the disconnect he felt from the people closest to him. Even now that Pope Alexander was dead and Cesare missing, it seemed as though his allies had no time for him. The solitude made his mind wander, made him wish for a time long since past; in response, he tried to suppress nostalgia with ambition and vengeance, his steadfast companions since he was seventeen years old.

"Ezio," a voice said, stirring the assassin from his thoughts. He wasn't surprised to find that Niccolò Machiavelli had caused the interruption. He stood on the other side of Ezio's desk, at a calculated distance that was both polite and insistent, hands clasped behind his back and posture diplomatically straight. Machiavelli was a master of controlling his body language, to the point where Ezio wasn't sure if he had ever seen the other man relax. At the same time, the Grand Master had stopped being fooled by the semblance of control, though he still struggled to identify whatever it was Machiavelli was hiding.

Yet again, he had always had difficulty understanding the motivations of his fellow assassin, not to mention the means by which he strove to achieve his goals. "You and I have not seen eye-to-eye on many issues," Machiavelli had said the night Claudia joined the Brotherhood and Ezio became its leader. It had been an understatement.

"Do you have news, Niccolò?" Ezio asked, glancing up at his second-in-command. "Have your spies found Cesare?"

Machiavelli shook his head. "No, _sfortunatamente_. We know that he is still ill, and hiding somewhere in the _città_—where, exactly, we have not yet found."

"I see." Ezio wasn't too pleased by the news, itching to see this murderer dead once and for all. Cesare would _pay_ for what they had done to his home and to Mario, to his dreams, to his life. "Any other news, then?"

"None, actually," Machiavelli said, taking a few steps forward to stand right in front of Ezio's desk. "I merely wanted to see how you were."

"How ... I am?" Ezio asked, perplexed.

"_Sì_," the younger assassin said, his face still impeccably controlled. It was a shame Niccolò was not one to gamble; he would have bluffed them all effortlessly. "You have been ... distracted as of late. La Volpe again expressed concern when I met with him this afternoon, so I decided to ask you directly rather than speculate." He lifted his chin slightly—a familiar motion that Ezio recognized it as a challenge that was disguising a defense. Interesting. "I hope I have not overstepped my bounds."

"No, no," Ezio quickly amended, gesturing for Machiavelli to take the chair opposite him. "I apologize, I did not mean to make you think your company was unwanted."

Machiavelli raised an eyebrow as he lowered himself into the chair. "_Non è nulla_, Ezio." He smoothed out his doublet and folded his hands in his lap, his posture as poised as ever despite the fact that this was a seemingly casual conversation. "I wish for us to speak openly with each other, Ezio," he added. "There is no need for secrets between us, particularly if you wish for me to act as your advisor."

There was something about Machiavelli that made him appear untrustworthy, and in hindsight, he couldn't blame La Volpe for assuming that the younger assassin had betrayed their order. Machiavelli was simply too intelligent—too cunning, too manipulative. He had another career as a political advisor to great and powerful men, and as a result knew how to control his face and words so as not to betray his intentions, or even his emotions. This was a man who knew how to play people to get what he wanted, and it made him quite threatening in all situations, regardless of whether or not he was armed—and Ezio knew better to assume that the man was ever unarmed. People who underestimated Machiavelli tended to regret it.

"I thank you for your concern, Niccolò," Ezio replied truthfully. "You can assure Volpe that there's no reason to worry for me. I'm merely anxious to rid this world of Cesare Borgia once and for all."

Machiavelli smirked. "I will relay the message. He and the others will certainly be relieved to hear this."

From what Ezio had learned of the Assassin's Order of years past, they were an organization that had emphasized emotional control to the point of coldness, as they felt this made for a more efficient assassin. Machiavelli seemed to have embraced that and made it his own, where Ezio had to admit that most of the other assassins he had met over the years—himself included, to be quite honest—were more boisterous and emotional, if not downright unusual. Even La Volpe, enigmatic as he was, could be quite paranoid, and also had a mischievous streak that rivaled Bartolomeo's.

"How is Volpe, by the way?" Ezio asked, leaning back in his seat slightly. "I haven't seen him since Claudia's initiation into the Brotherhood."

"Oh, quite fine," Machiavelli responded, nodding slightly as he spoke. "He is still occupied by his war against the Cento Occhi, as usual. It leaves him very little time to socialize." He paused for a moment, considering his next words. "It was good of you to help in that fight. Weakening the Cento Occhi weakens the Borgia's influence here in Roma."

"_Ma __certo_," Ezio immediately said. "Anything to help our Brotherhood."

"And it is that dedication that holds our order together, and why you are so suited to the role of Grand Master," Machiavelli said.

Ezio always wondered if Machiavelli knew about La Volpe's accusations. It was pretty likely, since Machiavelli seemed to have a network of information so large and vast that he was always aware of what was going on in every corner of the city. He was a puppet master with his fingers looped through an innumerable number of strings, including some in very high places. Ezio felt a swell of pride to know that the _Gonfaloniere_ of Florence depended on Machiavelli so heavily for information. Simultaneously, he wondered why it had taken him this long to actually appreciate what Machiavelli brought to their cause rather than just take advantage of it.

"It seems as though everyone is occupied at present," Ezio remarked. "Volpe's rivalry, Bartolomeo is spending all his time with Pantasilea—"

"Which is not surprising, given the fact that he almost lost her," Machiavelli interrupted, tilting his head ever-so-slightly to the right. "She means quite a lot to him—though I don't doubt that he will be back to his raucous self soon enough."

"He never changes, does he," Ezio asked rhetorically, raising an eyebrow. "Not that it isn't charming."

"I hope you are not surprised by that," Machiavelli answered wryly. "_Non __cambia __mai_. He has been the same since I first met him in 1487. Now he is just married to a woman rather than a sword."

Ezio chuckled. "Volpe's fighting his rivals, Bartolomeo is making love to his wife; and with Claudia constantly busy managing her girls..."

"That leaves us," Machiavelli finished. "Us, our mission, and all of our recruits."

"I'm surprised you're not overworked yourself," Ezio commented. "As a spymaster, surely you must spend most of your time managing and communicating with your informants."

Machiavelli shook his head. "Even so, _this_ is my first priority, Ezio," he said. "This Order, you, your family—no matter what happens, where my career takes me, my loyalties will always remain with the Assassins."

A few weeks ago, Machiavelli had admitted to helping Ezio from the shadows and pledged his loyalty to the new Grand Master of the Order. Ezio had responded in turn by calling Machiavelli his most trusted advisor, though in hindsight it felt a little cheap. This man not only stood behind him to offer advice and information, but also to silently ensure that their mission went smoothly. This was the man who had taken control of the Order after Mario's death to prevent it from crumbling; who had repeatedly offered Claudia and Maria protection in Florence if they chose to return; who had saved Ezio's life on multiple occasions, as well as ensured that he succeeded in his goals, and all without complaining or demanding credit or compensation. Niccolò Machiavelli was not only his most trusted advisor, but also his most loyal follower, even when they disagreed, and in hindsight, it had been incredibly unfair that Ezio had had even a shadow of a doubt about Machiavelli's loyalty to their Brotherhood. In many ways, he was one of the most trustworthy men in Rome.

"You and I have not seen eye-to-eye on many issues," Machiavelli had said the night that he put the last of his trust in Ezio; when Machiavelli, a man who was constantly in control, gave the reins to someone else.

"You have been very good to me, Niccolò," Ezio admitted. "I look forward to working with you more closely in the future."

Machiavelli raised an eyebrow, which was the closest thing to an expression of surprise that he tended to show. "What inspired that thought?"

"Nothing but the truth, _amico_," Ezio responded, grinning. Even though he knew it wasn't true, it felt like the first time he had genuinely smiled in a long, long time. And if he wasn't mistaken, it looked like the always-impassive Machiavelli was smiling too.

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><p><em><strong>Éros<strong>_

_passionate and romantic love; "being in love"_

It had been a long time since he had last indulged in carnal pleasures, Ezio realized with a tinge of bitterness. The fact didn't bother him as much as it would have years earlier, when he had been young and driven for sex almost as much as he had been for revenge. He hadn't tried to take a lover since he first arrived in Rome, due in part to his mission keeping him busy, as well as to the fact that his sister was the local madam and it was just _uncomfortable_ to let your sister—much less your sister _and _mother—know too much about your sex life.

Celibacy was something he had never envisioned for himself, and while it was certainly convenient at the moment, it wasn't something he intended to maintain. He desired a home and family, stability—eventually. Right now, it was too impossible, not to mention dangerous. He wouldn't risk anyone else's life by bringing her into his; he never wanted to watch something beautiful fade away ever again.

He had loved only two women in his life: Cristina Vespucci and Caterina Sforza—information that probably would have had Rosa saying: "What, was I not good enough for you?" even though she was the one who had ended their brief affair, claiming that Ezio was a _bore_. Caterina and Cristina were unlike each other in nearly every way, which made it surprising that he had loved them both with such fervor. Where Cristina was delicate, Caterina was blunt; where Cristina was mild, Caterina was a spitfire; where Cristina chose to live the life she was presented, Caterina took the bull by the horns and shaped her life to suit her ambitions. Of course, both women were quite shrewd in their own ways, and both were stunningly beautiful, also in their own ways. But where his love with Cristina epitomized youth and purity, Ezio had found Caterina to be an excellent example of the kind of woman his older self required, who would survive the lifestyle he now led.

Over a year in the Borgia's captivity didn't dampen Caterina's temper, but it had still destroyed something in her. Or maybe it had just been the self-consciousness of age that had changed her—he wasn't sure, but it hurt more than he liked to admit to see her curled pathetically in his arms, even if her words were as blunt as ever.

"Why save me, Ezio?" Caterina asked, not even looking at him as she spoke. "With Forlí taken, I am useless to you."

He could have told her of blossoming affections, of hopes and dreams of a future that seemed more likely than ever, but it seemed inappropriate. On the other hand, saying that it was out of loyalty to their cause seemed callous given their last encounter. So he settled for: "You have a family."

"It is not _your_ family," she countered, as if she had read his desire for just that.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Ezio took several slow steps forward, Caterina shuddered from the pain of her injured leg, and guards somewhere ahead of them chattered, blissfully unaware of what awaited them.

"That night at the villa," she started, deliberate, "I had to ensure our allegiance to protect Forlí." She swallowed. "Do you understand, Ezio?"

Ezio had to smile at that, even though what he felt was quite the opposite. "_È la politica_," he said. He understood; it was a game he had played before for information, at which he considered himself a master. He just hadn't expected someone else to play those same tricks on him, and so masterfully at that. "Of course. I knew it. You need not explain."

It was after that day that the visions started.

He was walking through a piazza _in centro_, surveying the continued renovations of the city now that the Borgia had lost their influence here, when something caught his eye and he suddenly recalled his youth in Florence. There was Cristina, beautiful as ever—it was the first day he saw her, before he learned how to charm women, when Federico still represented everything he wanted to be. It was a time when he was still willing to follow a girl home to get her attention, a practice he no longer encouraged; a time when he learned that he was willing to punch someone to defend a woman's honor, something he still practiced to this day. The day he learned her name.

It felt ... pathetic, honestly, to be thinking about and mourning his first girlfriend with such vivid intensity, but it seemed as though Rome was filled with echoes of the past at every turn. One day he would find a market selling irises, which reminded Ezio of long walks in the _Giardino dell'Iris_ and furtively picking white irises for Cristina's hair; or he would see a man that resembled her father and, briefly, feel the sudden instinct to run in the opposite direction. He remembered good memories and bad, arguments and agreements, sweet nothings and cries of passion, and perhaps most of all the simple joy of sitting on the hillside and watching the sun set over Florence with her in his arms.

Worst of all was the knowledge that he hadn't enjoyed it as much as he could have. He had _enjoyed_ it, of course, but he had been young and foolish, enjoying the freedom of flirting with a girl before running up to Cristina's bed. She put up with it, somehow—how or why he hadn't understood at the time, and had just assumed that she was willing to have fun until her father married her off. In hindsight, though, she had been waiting for him to grow up a bit and take their relationship more seriously. And he could very well have been the rich son who married the beautiful daughter, if life hadn't intervened. It was just a shame that he hadn't fallen in love with her until he had to say goodbye, or realized how wonderful a future with Cristina would be until it was much too late.

Ezio wasn't relieved when his mind switched from the idyllic memories of his adolescence to the one that marked the beginning of his adulthood. He always thought about the horrific feeling of carrying his father's and brothers' corpses, but adding Cristina back to the memory made him feel the full weight of the event, and the ways in which it had truly changed his life. It hurt—truly, _hurt_—to watch her stare up at him mournfully, to see the way her fingers toyed with the pendant around her neck as they said their goodbyes, to fall in love with her while they kissed for what felt like the last time. And as if to add insult to injury, the next memory that struck him was when Giovanni Auditore found Ezio kissing Cristina in a dark corner, and asked, with a knowing smile on his face, when Ezio planned on introducing him to this beautiful young lady.

His mind was trapped in time as his memories alternated between the joys of youth and the harsh reality of what came next. Feather-light kisses during a picnic. Watching her leave with another man. Getting teased by Federico about marriage while they walked past Santa Maria del Fiore. Her hands on his chest as she pushed him away in Venice. Her face glowing in the candlelight while they were tangled together in bed. Her cold, dead body in his arms. Her laugh.

And throughout all of that, he was expected to stop the Borgia, retrieve the Apple, save the world, lead the order—no rest. It was hard to focus on the present with his mind constantly wandering back to the past. He envied the way his sister was able to focus on reality without being distracted by fantasy. Life had a way of taunting him with everything he desired, and he hated himself for every minute of it.

When he held the Apple, he contemplated using it to see her. It was an object of seemingly infinite power, after all, so why couldn't it be used to bring someone back to life, or at least communicate with her spirit? And if that was impossible, maybe it would just be easier to bury himself in the memories themselves rather than in work, to use the Apple to force himself into a happy fantasy of the past, in which Ezio was young and untainted by betrayal, Cristina was still alive, and they could carry on with the life they should have lived. Surely Cristina's father would have warmed up to him, they could have married, he would have comfortably worked in his family's bank and let Federico play the assassin while he stayed home and loved his wife.

The thought was tempting, but his obligations tied him to his current life. Cesare Borgia was still alive and trying to regain power, and until that man was dead he couldn't afford to distract himself from his purpose. It also seemed unfair to his other loved ones to say that he would gladly leave them—or in some cases, completely erase them from his life—in order to live in a fantasy. No, if he abused the powers of the Apple, Claudia would yell, Machiavelli would shake his head, and Leonardo would look on sadly and silently ask: "Why?"

Because he loved Cristina. Because he loved her more than he ever could have loved Caterina, and he still—stupidly—wanted that second chance with her.

He stood by the bank of the Tiber at sunset and imagined himself by the Arno with her standing with him. If he squinted, he could almost make out her ghostly form standing there with her hand on his armored shoulder, smiling sadly at him. She was not as young as she was back then, but instead had fine lines around her eyes and mouth from years of smiling fondly at another man. The fact that she had technically loved Ezio more than she had her husband was a cold comfort.

"I am a fool," he said to the air, and his vision of Cristina nodded in response. "I suppose I'll never get my second chance?"

Cristina shook her head and laughed. "Ezio," she said, and her voice was full and mature and more beautiful than he had even remembered. "You already have."

She raised her arm and Ezio followed the movement with his eyes until he saw only her outstretched hand and the skyline of Rome. _His_ Rome. He immediately felt a swell of pride at the sight of the city that he had almost completely liberated, the city that had slowly become his home; and then, bitterly, he understood.

"Now do you see?" Cristina asked, lowering her hand so as not to obstruct his view.

"I see," he said, trying not to think about how weak he sounded in that moment, instead focusing on the glint of sunlight on the dome of San Pietro and the silhouetted buildings against a bright orange sky. It was beautiful—not the beauty he had always wanted for himself, but beautiful nonetheless.

"You don't need me," she pressed, gently as usual, coaxing him with the slightest lilt of her voice. He had always marveled at how easily and effortlessly she changed his mind, how much power she had over him. It made him feel as if she were really there with him in that moment, making sure he stayed on the straight path as Beatrice did for Dante.

"You're right," Ezio admitted, almost stunned by his own words. "I'm sorry I disturbed you from your rest, Cristina." He meant that sincerely, but another part of him would have disturbed her memory or ghost a million times more for a mere taste of the life he should have had. But his responsibilities demanded his attention; Rome was not yet free. This was his life now. Not the one he had wanted to live, but it was still his, and he would find the joy in it.

He could hear the smile in her voice as she said: "_Non è nulla_, Ezio."

"_Te __amo_," Ezio added, glancing back at her, but she was already gone.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Agápe<strong>_

_unconditional love; caring without circumstance; love as self-sacrifice_

Leonardo hissed whenever he took a bad step, placing too much weight on a leg that may have been broken. It provided a strange music to their journey through the Temple of Pythagoras: two sets of footsteps, two sets of exerted breathing, the occasional hiss as Leonardo navigated the rocky terrain, and the ambient noises of the cave. Ezio was no musician—that was another one of Leonardo's many, many talents—but he knew that their song was missing Leonardo's constant, cheerful chatter.

They shouldn't have been there. Leonardo needed medical attention, not because his wounds were life threatening, but because he was old and in pain and didn't deserve this. He belonged in his dusty studio, surrounded by the half-finished, genius _pezzi di merda_ that encompassed the body of his work, smelling like the paints, ink, and charcoal that stained his hands and clothing, and not the blood that currently took its place.

Ezio had, admittedly, panicked when he saw Leonardo curled in on himself and spitting blood, and his heart still raced even though he knew his friend was safe. The whole situation reminded him of the time Leonardo had been beaten up by a guard, nearly thirty years prior. Ezio had been terrified—not only of his first assassination, but also for the gentle man's safety—however the artist had taken it in stride, hiding how badly his ribs hurt and insisting that he didn't need help. Years later he was doing the same thing, which Ezio thought was ironic given how frequently Leonardo had nursed him back to health while scolding him for injuring himself.

"You are quiet," Ezio commented, hoping to sate his need to hear the artist speak. The tunnels echoed with his voice, and he was a little startled by the sound; he was always surprised by how his voice had changed, deepened. "It is unlike you."

"I'm thinking," Leonardo said, his voice similarly deeper and raspier—my, how they had aged over the years. "Is that not like me?"

"You think _out loud_, Leonardo," Ezio explained. "You babble to yourself about how this rock is older than the other rock and that means that the earth is moving, or whatever it is that is currently holding your interests. So if you tell me that your silence is thought, then I think I have reason to be afraid." He glanced back and smiled roguishly at Leonardo, who was staring at him curiously. "How hard did those madmen hit you?"

Leonardo began to chuckle, but his face soon crumpled into a grimace of pain that made Ezio ache. "I'm sorry, _mio amico_, it hurts to laugh right now," he said, and lifted his hand to his cheek, wincing at the touch. "I think it even hurts to smile too."

The lighthearted moment seemingly ruined, Ezio turned and kept moving forward.

Ezio regretted not seeing Leonardo these past few years, but his hunt for Cesare Borgia had regretfully taken him out of Rome. He had grown to truly love the city and its inhabitants, something that, as usual, he hadn't fully realized until he had left it behind. Two years of travel had taken its toll on him, so it was strange to return to the place he considered home only to find that his mother's passing was the only major difference to this world. The guilds were intact with his friends and family in charge, Leonardo still painted, and the Order still stood. Rome had survived without him and moved on; she was no longer _his_ Rome. She was glad to see him return, but she didn't need him anymore, and the knowledge stung.

While he knew that Rome would always carry her dangers, he worried that he had brought them back with him. Even though Leonardo's present situation had been of his own doing, it was only when Ezio returned that it had escalated to the point of kidnapping and abuse. More importantly, it had been the damned Apple—Ezio's Apple, Ezio's influence—that had given Leonardo the vision and drive to pursue Pythagoras' work. Without Ezio, Leonardo would have been safe at his workshop.

Safety. He wanted that for his friend more than anything.

A few years earlier, Leonardo had made a cryptic reference to a secret Ezio had long since realized. "Women hold very little distraction," he had said, and the hand he had gently placed on the assassin's shoulder had felt warm even though his heavy robes. Ezio had almost flinched at the words and touch, turning his head sharply towards his friend with shock even though the concept was not shocking, just something that was never discussed.

"I don't get it," Ezio had responded, not because he failed to understand, but to maintain the careful balance that had existed for over two decades. And though it had pained him to know that he had hurt Leonardo's feelings, he had deemed it the safest possible course.

Leonardo had actually drunkenly confessed to Ezio fifteen years prior, as they walked back to his _bottega_ during Carnevale. Ezio had commented that Leonardo deserved a good woman to keep him company, and when Leonardo began to protest, added that he knew the artist was celibate, though that didn't mean that he was immune to love.

"Ezio, I know perfectly well how to love," Leonardo had slurred. "And I'm ... not celibate by choice, but out of necessity. My kind is not accepted here."

"Your kind?" Ezio had asked.

"Sodomites." Leonardo froze in his tracks, staring at Ezio in horror. "I ... oh, _figlio di puttana_! You..." He trailed off, looking down in shame. "You ... must be disgusted."

"_No_," Ezio had insisted, taking the artist by the shoulders. "In _Firenze_, my friends did ... _that_. Had male lovers."

"But you do not feel the same way," Leonardo had asked, but it wasn't a question. His eyes, slightly unfocused by wine, stared straight into his—they seemed to glow blue, like the man himself did when Ezio used his special sight.

"I ... no," Ezio had stuttered, strangely embarrassed by the question that lurked _beneath_ the question. "I can't say I am." The knowledge that friends, and perhaps even his brother, did such a thing had sparked a curiosity in him, but he had never felt much need to pursue such pleasures when Cristina welcomed him in her bed. He loved Leonardo dearly, but didn't think of him in that way.

"Ah," Leonardo had responded, easing himself out of the tight grip Ezio still had on his shoulders. "_Peccato_."

_What a shame_.

That evening changed the way Ezio looked at Leonardo: he began to wonder what motivated his kindness. Was it mere friendship, or did Leonardo secretly hope that his passions—which he still imagined was a secret, since he didn't remember that conversation—would eventually be reciprocated?

Ezio should have known from the start. Leonardo's curiosity about the Codex pages had seemed natural, and his willingness to bring its secrets to life understandable. His willingness to suffer abuses to hide Ezio's location had been brave for a man who claimed that courage was not his strong suit; his continued association with the assassin despite the trials it brought had been foolish. And in hindsight, studying the Apple had been a huge mistake, and the first time Ezio truly wondered if bringing Leonardo into his life had done the artist more harm than good.

"Why did you help me, Leonardo?" Ezio suddenly asked, overcome by curiosity. Stopping in his tracks, he turned to face the bruised artist, who had halted in his footsteps and once again stared at him curiously.

"I would not let Cesare Borgia use my machines for his vicious purposes," Leonardo said, "much less against you and the other Assassins. I was only undoing my own work."

"No, not just then," Ezio urged, taking a step closer to his friend. "You never _needed_ to be my loyal friend. You could have stayed in _Milano_ like you always wanted to, lived there—you never needed to travel between there and Venice, or move to Monteriggioni, or help or heal me or hide me at the cost of your own safety."

Leonardo smiled delicately, too afraid to move his face. "I told you once before that I would do anything for you, and I meant it."

"But _why_?" Ezio asked, clasping the artist's shoulders. It was something that had bothered him for years, but seeing the way the artist winced under his grip, his skin aged and purpling from injury and his eyes creased by the torment of his experiences—it made the festering frustration burst. "_Why_ do you remain my friend, when all it does is cause you harm?"

"Because I am not afraid of it," Leonardo said, quite simply; and his eyes shone blue with friendship and trustworthiness, but glowed with devotion.

"You aren't afraid of it," Ezio quietly echoed, rapidly calming.

"'Where there is most feeling, there is the greatest martyrdom,'" Leonardo continued. "That sounds ... extreme, I know, but it holds some truth. I wrote it down years ago, when I was in Castel Sant'Angelo, and the notion helped me to persevere even as I help Cesare Borgia commit atrocities." He smiled a little more broadly, even though it hurt. "The thought of seeing you, even if it was rarely and briefly, brought me peace."

Ezio suddenly felt weighed down by the armor on his body and the life he had lived; tired by the constant struggle and need to find his happiness wherever he went, and by leaving it behind when he found it. He was old, and while he was no longer unhappy with the life he had led, he still wondered when he would find the peace for which he constantly fought, not seeing that his dear, dear friend the artist had already brought him a glimpse of peace.

Leonardo had been the respite from Ezio's responsibilities. Whether it was repairs, healing, shelter, or even just company, the artist had always opened his door to the assassin. The _bottega_ had been a sanctuary, a place where Ezio no longer felt dogged by his duties, but instead indulged in deep familiarity, effortless ease, laughter and dedication ... love that he found difficult to define. He had always described his relationship with Leonardo as a brotherly friendship, aware that this somehow felt inadequate or incomplete but unable to explain how. Perhaps it had been tinged with the more romantic affections that the artist had hinted at feeling years ago, and while the thought of loving a man as he had a woman was still a little baffling, he knew that if he ever loved any man in such a way, it would have to be Leonardo.

It wasn't sexual, though Florence had made him curious to know what kissing the artist felt like, if his lips and hair and skin would as soft as a woman's, albeit prickled by the wiry hairs of his beard. But he was not alight with the flames of desire that he had felt in his youth. Perhaps his ability to love had matured, or perhaps this was simply the effect Leonardo had on him. Or perhaps what he felt was simply _need_: a need to be closer, to grasp onto this source of light and knowledge and never let go. To protect this man as best he could, fighting off anyone who dared to selfishly use such genius for his own gain. To give Leonardo the happiness that Ezio himself strove for—they could discover safety and peace together like a Codex page to be deciphered.

Years earlier, Leonardo had asked, indirectly, if Ezio could ever love him, and years later, an aging Ezio reconsidered his answer. It was a second chance, like all of the other second chances Rome had provided. He had reformed his bond with Claudia, rediscovered his friendship with Machiavelli, rediscovered his purpose thanks to Cristina, and now he had a second chance at the future with a man he loved so dearly.

Ezio was smiling despite himself, unable to explain his ease except that Leonardo had inspired it. "Come," he said, grinning his typical, roguish grin. "Let us continue on. We need to get you back to your _bottega_ and to—"

"—Salaì." Leonardo frowned, glancing down at the floor in deep thought, and then raised his bright gaze back to Ezio's. "I suppose he is out having fun spending my hard-earned florins?" There was a tinge of pain behind the question, though Leonardo masked it well.

"He is safe at home," Ezio said, hoping those words would be comforting. Salaì may have been a spoiled brat, but he cared more than he let on and had been very distraught by his master's disappearance. It was a bit unfortunate that Leonardo underestimated his assistant's devotion, or perhaps didn't see it at all.

"Go, bring him back to me," Salaì had said as Ezio left the _bottega_, wringing his hands and suddenly seeming a lot less selfish and arrogant than before. Fear had clearly humbled him.

Relief washed over Leonardo's face. "I am relieved," he said, before catching himself and adding, more coolly: "About the florins, of course."

Ezio recognized that relief: hope. It was a hope that he had seen reflected in the artist's eyes before, the night that he had unintentionally confessed his interest, hoping that there was some way that Ezio shared similar inclinations. It was a hope driven by affection, and while it was beautiful to witness, he had to admit that it made him uncomfortable to see such a loving expression when it was technically for someone else's benefit.

Ezio had initially wondered if Salaì shared in his master's more illicit persuasions, particularly due to some of the jokes and comments he made, but dismissed the thought when he witnessed the young man revert to a boyish state in his worry. The reaction forced him to assume that Salaì was like a son to Leonardo, and nothing more. But now, seeing the look of relief on Leonardo's face cast Ezio back into a state of doubt, particularly since the artist was attempting to mask it. Leonardo was trying to hide something, prevent Ezio from learning that he truly _cared_ for his apprentice, which wouldn't have mattered if Salaì were like a son, but would if...

And bitterly, he understood: _Roma_ hadn't been the only one to move on.

"You do not need to lie to me," Ezio said, forcing a smile and squeezing the shoulders beneath his hands, realizing that they were not his to touch. "Salaì fits you, I approve."

Salaì was young and handsome. He may have been selfish and spoiled, but he had lived with Leonardo for some time now, cared for him both in times of peace and when they had been in the Borgia's clutches, understood his whims and the trivialities of the day-to-day. He was enough trouble to make life interesting, but not enough to truly endanger the artist, and should the worst occur, knew how to fight to defend them both. And at that moment, he was sitting at home, wringing his hands and nervously waiting for his master to return, mulling over regrets and apologies and promises he now intended—and had the ability—to keep.

"I..." Leonardo said, the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind reflecting itself in his face. The most visible one was shock—which, for Leonardo, was a wide-eyed expression with a lightly creased eyebrow, slack jaw, and barely parted lips—and certainly a bit of panic, the same one that had caused him to curse loudly in a Venetian street fifteen years ago. But somewhere between the lines of his face there sat that love that Ezio still struggled to define, the one that was the inspiration for such extreme, dangerous generosity. It pained Ezio to realize that this love was no longer entirely his.

"Leonardo da Vinci at a loss for words?" Ezio joked, though the thought of laughing made his stomach drop and his chest ache. "That is a first."

Ezio wasn't a safe choice. Ezio killed, destroyed, bled. Ezio disappeared for months at a time and returned with tragedy on his heels, constantly rebuilding his life and watching it being ripped from his arms. He was old, less handsome than he was even five years ago. He made promises he couldn't keep. He left without guarantee of return. He loved most effectively from a distance.

More importantly, Cesare Borgia was still alive, which meant that Rome was still at risk, and Mario and the rest of Monteriggioni unavenged. He needed to punish Cesare for everything that the young Spanish lord had done to Ezio and his loved ones—it would, again, prove a welcome distraction to the hole that was forming in his heart, one that, for a brief instant, he had thought he would be able to fill.

"Ezio..." Leonardo started, and the softness of his voice made Ezio want to remain there forever, in the darkness of the temple, clutching onto his only source of light. If he wanted to, he could selfishly take it, keep it, watch it wane and flicker and die in his perpetual absence; if he was reading the blues of Leonardo's eyes correctly, the artist would let him. But he could never do that to Leonardo, who deserved a better life in his _bottega_ with his art and his inventions and paper and dust, and an assistant who loved him faithfully even if he gambled their money away.

_Where there is most feeling, there is the greatest martyrdom._

Leonardo had put his life at risk countless times to keep Ezio safe, to keep him moving forward. To repay the favor, Ezio needed to let Leonardo live the life he deserved to live: one without the poisonous influence of Ezio Auditore da Firenze.

Ezio slipped his arms around Leonardo's shoulders, pulling the artist into a tight, careful hug. Leonardo's heart was hammering against his, and he couldn't blame it. "_Non __è __nulla_, _caro __amico_," Ezio said, closing his eyes and briefly indulging in a fantasy of what could have been before hiding it away in a box where he still kept his other dreams and fantasies; with Cristina, his family, with Florence.

And with a final, bitter smile, he turned, releasing Leonardo from the hold he had around him, and kept moving forward, deeper into the temple.


End file.
